


trade my luck to know

by ceruleancats



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Humor, M/M, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, basically jonmartin preslash but not super strong so i didnt tag, or at least my attempt at it lmao, rated T for the swearing in Jon's internal monologue, sasha only gets like one line im so sorry, set in s1 and s2, title from crossfire by stephen!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 19:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22003567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceruleancats/pseuds/ceruleancats
Summary: Lately, it seems like Jon's been knowing a lot of things that, by all rights, he shouldn't. These are obviously all coincidences and in no way relate to the spooky happenings of the Magnus Institute.(Set during seasons 1 and 2, exploring how Jon's burgeoning Archivist powers might have manifested before he really knew what was going on.)
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, Basira Hussain & Jonathan Sims, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims
Comments: 10
Kudos: 189





	trade my luck to know

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I was trying to make this canon compliant for the first two seasons, but then I realized I have some inconsistencies that kind of prevent that and I was too lazy to rewrite. So I'm going to call this canon compliant* where * means if you pretend not to notice some minor things. Anyway, enjoy the read and please leave a comment/kudos if ya feel like it :)

The bar is deafening. 

The karaoke microphone and associated background music is blasting at an earsplitting volume, and everyone else in the bar who wants to have a conversation is attempting to scream over it to be heard, which only makes everything noisier. Damn Martin for coercing him into being here tonight instead of in the blissful silence of the Archives with only the whir of a tape recorder for company. But Jon has been turning down drinks with the rest of the Archives staff for months now, and regardless of his disdain for Martin as an assistant, the look of disappointment on the man’s face when he asked again this afternoon and Jon, predictably, declined… Well, suffice it to say, the power of Martin’s puppy dog eyes is not to be underestimated. Not again, at least. For now, he’s trapped in this godawful place with this godawful racket by the law of social engagement, as well as Martin, who looks unbearably sad every time Jon makes to stand up and exit the premises. 

Speaking of Martin, he’s currently leaning over towards Jon from the seat beside him and apparently speaking, although absolutely none of what he’s saying is audible. 

Jon rolls his eyes and points to his ear in the universal “I can’t hear you” sign. Martin decides the best course of action is to scream loudly directly into Jon’s ear canal. 

“I SAID, D’YOU WANT TO DO A SONG?” Martin points over at the man currently making a fool of himself into the microphone. 

Jon would hope the look of disgust that spontaneously engulfs his face is answer enough, but evidently Martin is drunk past the point of successful interpretation of social cues, because he takes it as an invitation to drag Jon bodily out of his seat, away from Tim and Sasha, and towards the aforementioned microphone. Jon makes desperate eye contact with Sasha, who smiles and shrugs like what can you do, and then Tim, who just smirks and gives him a snarky wave. This is coming out of their paychecks.

Jon tugs at Martin’s jumper, trying to communicate that actually, in fact, his lack of answer to the karaoke question meant no, he would prefer not to partake, but Martin seems not to notice as he tows Jon nearer and nearer to the karaoke machine.

“Martin. MARTIN! Martin, I--this--I don’t--I can’t sing!” Jon says with increasing intensity as they approach. He struggles to free his arm from Martin’s vice-like grasp to no avail. 

“My friend wants to sing a song,” Martin announces loudly to the pitiable employee overseeing the karaoke station.

“Excuse me, sorry, he’s a bit drunk, and I would not like to do a song--”

“Oh sure, you’re next as soon as this guy finishes,” the employee says over him, nodding to Martin. Alright, Jon may be soft-spoken at times but this is ridiculous. He shakes off Martin’s hand, which has loosened considerably, and steps toward the employee with the full intention of shutting this little enterprise down now before it gets any more out of control, but before he can say anything Martin moves to block his path and meets his gaze with the most pathetically sorrowful eyes he’s ever seen.

“Martin, come on now,” Jon says, with a valiant attempt at avoiding eye contact. “Is this really necessary?”

Martin just pouts, damn him (again). Jon is a rational man with no time or patience for this kind of sentimental garbage. There is no way this idiot man and his stupid, irrefusable puppy dog eyes will get the better of Jon twice in one day.

The only logical conclusion here is that Martin is some kind of supernatural creature with the power of mind control via his unnaturally sad eyeballs, Jon thinks, completely logically, as he holds the microphone as far away from him as possible and watches Bohemian Rhapsody get queued up on the machine. He doesn’t even fucking know Bohemian Rhapsody, has only ever heard it once or maybe twice, but par for the course of this trainwreck of a night, Martin was apparently deaf to his protests about the song selection. Jon might be tipsy enough (or vulnerable enough to Martin’s paranormal charms) to agree to this, but he is definitely not drunk enough to actually go through with singing a song he doesn’t know in front of a packed bar. 

Jon’s gaze swings desperately over to the side of the stage-like area he’s standing in, and Martin gives him a messy thumbs up and a beaming grin. Jon resists the powerful urge to sprint from the stage off into the night and live in the sewers where he’ll never have to encounter a living person ever again. 

The song starts. Jon takes a deep breath, ready to announce to the bar that apologies, unfortunately he will be unable to perform this song, would anyone else like to take over? But what comes out instead is “Is this the real life,” in perfect pitch and rhythm. Followed by the entire rest of the song, in a similar manner. Jon’s mouth seems to move almost beyond his control, lyrics and melody flowing through him like he's the conduit for a rushing river. 

When the last note fades out, into the sudden silence of the crowded room, it seems as if every eye in the bar is trained on him. The patrons erupt into thunderous applause, and Jon almost jumps at the sudden noise. He feels hazy, like this is some kind of fever dream. Martin appears at his side and slings an arm around Jon’s shoulders, eyes shining.

“Jon, that was brilliant! I can’t believe you said you couldn’t sing!” 

“I...can’t,” Jon says, still a bit dazed. “And I’ve only heard that song once or twice; I’ve no idea how I did that.”

“Ah, see, everyone picks up Bohemian Rhapsody subconsciously, you know,” Martin says sagely, nodding his head. “I don’t know anyone who knows it who’s actually tried to learn the lyrics.” That sounds blatantly untrue, but, well, really, what other explanation is there? Other than the idea that he somehow psychically streamed the song directly into his head and out through his mouth, which, if he’s being honest, is even less likely than his paranormal Martin theory. 

When he and Martin get back to their seats, Tim leaps up to congratulate him.

“Killer singing, boss! Real shame we’ve got you wasting away muttering to yourself in a basement, when you could be serenading us all on Britain’s Got Talent!” 

“Shut up,” Jon says halfheartedly, but Tim can probably tell he doesn’t really mean it and just winks exaggeratedly at Jon in return.

“Really Jon, I had no idea you were that talented,” Sasha says, without the sarcastic edge of Tim’s comment. “That was amazing!”

Jon mumbles his thanks and makes his excuses to get the hell out of this place before his brain spontaneously downloads more music. Perhaps his earlier assessment of his sobriety was a bit of an overestimate, because he still feels rather strange. Best to head home and sleep off whatever this has been. Maybe the mysterious acquisition of Queen knowledge will make more sense in the morning.

___

As soon as the statement is finished, the tape recorder off, Jon sighs and runs a hand through his hair (which has been getting steadily longer and is now probably past the point of professional, not that he has the time or energy to worry about something like that with the threat of Jane Prentiss and her worms looming over his head like a particularly nasty storm cloud). He places his head gently on the desk and lets the post-statement exhaustion wash over him, feeling the energy almost leaching out of his bones. This one was unusually bad, for some reason he can’t quite discern. Or maybe it’s just the faster pace he’s been reading them at lately is catching up with him. Whatever. He’ll just rest his eyes for a moment…

A knock on the door of his office startles Jon out of whatever half-doze he’s managed to achieve, and he pries his eyes open with a flash of irritation. 

“Yes, Martin, come in.” Jon attempts to make himself as presentable as possible in the two seconds he has before the door opens, praying he’ll be able to disguise the fact that he’s been napping at his desk at literally eleven in the morning. 

Martin opens the door with a strange look on his face. “How’d you know it was me?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“You only knock once. Sasha knocks twice, and Tim just barges in whenever he pleases,” Jon says dryly, though he hadn’t actually noted this until just now. Huh. Must have put that together in the back of his mind somehow. 

“Ah, right,” Martin says, and then just stands there for a few seconds, staring at Jon.

Oh, for god’s sake. “Martin. You had something to tell me?” Jon says, blinking rapidly a few times in a desperate ploy to keep his eyelids from their inexorable downward slide. 

“Right! Um, I was just going to ask if you wanted to have some tea. In the kitchen. With me. Now.” 

Jon opens his mouth to refuse on reflex, but he really does need some type of caffeine if he’s going to get any amount of work done for the rest of the day. He shuts his mouth, opens it again. “Alright, sure.”

Martin looks almost surprised, which is a bit sad (how many times has Jon brushed him off for something like this?), but he brightens up quickly.

“Great! So, d’you want to head over now, or…” he trails off, looking at Jon hopefully. 

Jon sighs and rubs uselessly at his eyes. “Yes, now is fine.”

The Archives kitchen is tiny, which makes sense since they only have a handful of employees down here. However, there’s at least a nice electric kettle, which enables his and Martin’s somewhat insatiable tea habits. 

“Ah, I can make the tea this time,” Jon says suddenly, relieving Martin of the kettle and turning on the sink to fill it up. “I feel it’s high time I reciprocate for all those cups you’ve made me.”

Martin stares at him like he’s a stranger, which actually kind of stings. Has he seriously been so regularly rude to Martin that something as small as offering to make tea is such a surprise? Jon knows he can come off as...prickly, in so many words, but. Perhaps he has been rather harsh on the man. 

“Really? Erm, sure, thanks,” Martin says, sounding vaguely shell-shocked. Jon tries not to wince, feeling increasingly guilty. He tamps the guilt down and loses himself in the familiar ritual of making tea. 

Once the water boils, Jon plucks two tea bags and two mugs from the cupboard and sets about steeping the tea while Martin hovers awkwardly over his shoulder like he’s just barely restraining himself from wrenching back control of the tea-making process. 

Jon turns to raise an eyebrow at him. “Martin. You may hesitate to believe it, but I am perfectly capable of making a cup of tea,” he says good-naturedly, although it comes out slightly more dry than he means it to. 

Martin lets out an embarrassed chuckle and rocks back a step. “Right, of course, sorry Jon. I’ll just, um, wait over here,” he says, and moves to lean up against the doorframe on the other side of the room, as if that’s any less awkward. 

Jon turns back to the mugs so Martin can’t see the tiny smile that’s appeared unbidden on his face. He grabs the milk from the fridge and sugar packets from the drawer on autopilot, more concerned with mentally unpacking why Martin being awkward, an everyday occurrence that is mildly obnoxious at best, is suddenly making him smile. There haven’t been any statements yet about monsters with the power to endear themselves to people via awkwardness, but that certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing Jon’s come across in his largely futile quest to organize the Archives. 

Jon sighs, shaking his head to banish this train of thought that’s become entirely ridiculous (must be the post-statement exhaustion getting to him), and picks up the finished cups of tea. He raises Martin’s toward him, and Martin moves to accept it with a smile. 

“Cheers,” Jon says, and they both take a sip. It’s good, although (he hates to admit) not quite as good as the way Martin makes it for him. Jon looks up to see what Martin thinks about his, and finds him looking pleased but confused. 

“This is...really good. How did you know I like my tea with--”

“--two sugars and a splash of milk?” Jon says at the same time as Martin. “Oh, I’m sure you mentioned it at some point.” 

Martin’s eyebrows furrow for the second time this morning. “Huh, I don’t remember ever telling you. Maybe you just saw me making it one time and thought I told you?”

Huh. The phrase “two sugars and a splash of milk” feels far too vivid in his mind for it not to have been something Martin said to him personally, but perhaps Martin just forgot. It’s not as if he has a perfect memory. Anyway, it’s nothing worth making a fuss over.

Jon hums in agreement. “Yes, that must have been it. Well, I’m glad you like it.”

“Yeah, thanks! I should let you make the tea more often,” Martin says mischievously. 

Jon manages to contain a surprised snort of laughter. “I did tell you I was capable.”

Martin giggles softly in return, and they fall into a companionable silence, sipping their tea. And maybe it’s just the tiredness talking, but somewhere in the back recesses of his mind, Jon is beginning to think he may have perhaps been a bit hasty in his earlier judgements of Martin as a person.

___

"Statement of Valerie Evans, regarding a strange experience in the canyon behind her house in Los Angeles, California. Original statement given September 12th, 2014. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of--oh hello, Elias, did you need something? I was just about to record a statement."

Elias steps fully into Jon's office, shutting the door behind him. He's wearing an unusually grave frown, which is somewhat worrying. Anything that causes visible emotion to seep through the cracks in Elias's polite mask usually spells particularly bad news. "Yes, I will get straight to the point, then. Jon, I've become aware that you have had your assistants conducting investigations into the Lukas family. As I've said before, I cannot have you poking around investigating the Lukases. They are the Institute's primary patron--"

"Yes, yes, I know, Peter Lukas funds half the Institute out of pocket," Jon says dismissively before cutting himself off as his own words sink in. "Wait, Peter Lukas? Captain of the Tundra Peter Lukas? That, that man has been disappearing people for years. He's a murderer!"

Elias looks faintly intrigued but unmoved. "I believe those reports are greatly exaggerated. Peter and I have an arrangement, and to be quite honest, I cannot risk you endangering this Institute's wellbeing on likely unfounded claims. Do you understand?"

Jon frowns. The statements about Peter Lukas, and in fact the whole Lukas family, demonstrate a pattern that can hardly be labeled "unfounded." Surely there's a less sinister source of funding available somewhere. "Yes, but, well--" he starts, but Elias immediately holds up a finger to stop him.

"I'm sorry, but this matter is not up for debate. Please leave the Lukas family be. I will not be discussing this with you further," he says, making extended and vaguely uncomfortable eye contact with Jon until he ducks his head in acquiescence.

"Wonderful!" Elias says cheerfully, all trace of firmness suddenly gone. "Oh, and Jon? Out of curiosity, who told you it was Peter specifically who contributes most to the Institute?"

"Oh, er, I must have read it somewhere, on some spreadsheet or other..." But he couldn't have, could he? He hadn't known until just now...must be that he'd seen a hint somewhere and just put it together in the moment. He tries for a friendly smile, probably falls a bit short.

"Ah, yes, of course. Keep up the good work, Jon," Elias says with a smile, in a strange, almost delighted tone that makes Jon suspect he's talking about something beyond the statement he's been trying to read, though what exactly it could be is a mystery.

"...Thanks, I'll try."

Elias takes his leave, Jon staring out into space after him. After a moment, he shakes his head and resigns himself to his usual state of not knowing what the hell Elias is really talking about. The tape recorder on the desk whirs loudly, like it's trying to get his attention. Right. Overthinking whatever that was can wait; he has a statement to record.

___

Jon’s phone vibrates softly from somewhere beneath the mess of statements blanketing his desk. Right, that’ll be Basira. He digs underneath the stack to his right and manages to fish it out without toppling the pile. 

Outside, the text says. She always does know how to get straight to the point. Jon stands up and immediately winces. Unfortunately sitting hunched over his desk for several hours tends to catch up to him. He stretches, shoves his phone in his pocket, grabs his coat, and jogs for the stairs out of the Archives. 

When he reaches to their designated meeting spot, Basira is leaning unobtrusively against the wall, staring up at London’s orangey-grey light-polluted sky. At the sound of his footsteps, she looks over at him with a nod of acknowledgement. 

"Let's make this quick; I've got other things to do tonight." Basira brandishes the small bag of tapes at him.

"Oh, yes, of course... Anything fun?" Jon says as he takes them, in an attempt at normal human conversation. He’s...making an effort to do these things, nowadays, at least with the people who don’t hate him.

"Not really your business, but it's a date."

"Ah, well, I won't keep you,” Jon says with an amused half-smile. “Don't want to keep Daisy waiting."

"What did you say?" Basira asks, voice sharp. Her gaze hardens with suspicion, and she takes a threatening step forward. "Who told you we were together?"

"What? I, um, no one told me. I put it together from what you said about her in your statement?" Jon says hastily, backing up a step, though it feels more like a question. That must have been it, right? Some kind of deduction that he just put together subconsciously. Because Basira clearly never mentioned it, and he's never talked to Daisy before. And it's not as if the rest of the Archive staff would know or, for that matter, care enough to gossip about the love life of some police officer they've probably never met.

Basira narrows her eyes at him, considering. "Right," she says abruptly. "Well, like I said before, not your problem. And if you have an issue with it, I'll tell you right now, I don't care." An issue, why would he have an issue with that, he thinks, before remembering that homophobia is something that exists. 

"Oh, no, no issue," Jon says rapidly, with a pathetically awkward noise that might generously be considered a laugh. "I'm, uh, very open to that, er, sort of thing."

Basira raises an eyebrow. "That sort of thing?" she parrots, seeming to enjoy his growing mortification entirely too much.

"Yes," he says, before clamping his lips shut to avoid digging himself any deeper into the unfortunate hole he’s somehow managed to create. He can tell Basira has caught his drift though, so to speak, and saying out loud that his dating pool also involves his same sex would just fuel the unnecessary embarrassment.

"Hm," Basira says, deadpan. "That is certainly a relief to hear. Now, I'm off. Enjoy the tapes, Jon." She strides past him towards the street before he can respond, clapping him on the shoulder without even a hint of the smile Jon suspects she's keeping contained.

Jon stands alone in the dark and lets his head slam into the wall with a thunk. Perhaps if he hits it hard enough, he can induce short term amnesia and forget the last three minutes ever happened.

___

Jon literally runs into Tim turning the blind corner into the Archives kitchen, and Tim narrowly avoids spilling coffee all over both of them.

"Jesus, boss, maybe we should get you a bell," Tim says, a bit more nastily than is perhaps warranted.

Jon bites back a sarcastic reply and just sighs instead. "Sorry, Tim."

"Yeah, you'd better be," Tim mutters, and clenches his hand tighter around the mug of coffee. 

"Tim, really, I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do to...make things better for you here," Jon says, trying for a conciliatory tone. He really does regret the way he's been treating the rest of the Archives staff these past months, but he can't trust them, he just can't, because one of them killed Gertrude and he needs to know who.

"Oh sure, yeah, I have a couple ideas. First off, maybe don't stalk your employees. And second off, maybe don't accuse people of murder," Tim says, sarcasm practically dripping from his words. "Would you like me to go on?"

"I just--needed to make sure I could trust you."

Tim grins sardonically and spreads his arms wide, coffee sloshing dangerously. "Well, am I trustworthy enough for you now?"

"Tim, I...I don't think you killed Gertrude," Jon says truthfully. He's still not sure, but Tim (or at least the person Tim used to be) doesn't really seem capable of it.

"Fantastic!" Tim spits. "Then maybe you can get the hell out of my way so I can drink my coffee at my desk in peace."

This conversation is heading in the same direction their conversations always seem to go nowadays, and Jon grasps for something to say that can salvage it. He doesn't want end another goddamn interaction in animosity.

"Yes, sorry," he says, stepping sideways so Tim has space to move past him. "Enjoy the kayaking trip."

Tim, who started to stride past Jon as he spoke, suddenly freezes. He turns slowly back around to face Jon. "What did you say?" he asks, voice low and dangerous.

"I said enjoy the kayaking trip this weekend?" Jon says slowly, more of a question than a statement.

Tim barks out an angry, humorless laugh, and Jon almost startles at its intensity. "Ah, stalking again, are we? And here I thought you finally trusted me."

"You didn't...mention it the other day?" Jon asks weakly, although now that he thinks about it he can't recall Tim or anyone, for that matter, mentioning anything about a kayaking trip.

"Nope! Must've been you snooping through my computer like the creepiest boss ever, 'cause I definitely didn't tell any of you freaks about my getaway from this nightmare!"

But Jon hasn't been snooping, as Tim puts it. He never even touched Tim's computer the first time, and certainly hasn't since then. There's no way Jon should be able to know this, which is a thought that's become strangely familiar. 

"Tim, I never touched your computer. I--there's something...happening to me, I think. I keep knowing things, things that I shouldn't be able to know. I kept just writing it off as flukes or coincidences, but...by now it's become a pattern."

"Well, that's just great. Instead of a creepy boss who stalks me, now I have a creepy boss who just magically knows things about me with his spooky powers." Tim pitches his voice up mockingly. "Dream job!"

And with that, Tim pushes past Jon back towards his desk, conversation apparently over. Jon sits down hard on the cheap folding chair at the cheap folding table in the corner of the kitchen.

This has certainly been a revelation, about what has been happening for, god, months at least. Since he took the job as Head Archivist, maybe. He doesn't understand at all what this means or how it works or what godawful monster or power or whatever he's channelling is but given what's been happening…

Seems like he might Know soon enough.


End file.
